


This Charming Man

by dragonQuill907



Series: Smithslock Oneshots [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, He's fine though, John Swears A Lot, John is a melodramatic bitch, M/M, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-13 23:50:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7143551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonQuill907/pseuds/dragonQuill907
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's bike gets a flat on a desolate hillside, and his savior is a rather mysterious, blushing genius in a rather charming car. His choice of payment's a bit weird, though.</p><p>Based on the song "This Charming Man" by The Smiths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Charming Man

**Author's Note:**

> Since I'm obsessed with both The Smiths and Sherlock, I'm combining the two to make... whatever this is. Each fic is a oneshot that is based on a song by The Smiths.
> 
> Requests for AUs (femlock, teenlock, soulmates, whatever) are welcome because these are going to be kind of random.
> 
> Also, feedback fuels me so be a lamb and leave a comment :)
> 
> Thanks to @EmmaLockWrites for being a super awesome editor!

This fanfiction is based on "This Charming Man" by The Smiths. The lyrics can be found [here](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/smiths/thischarmingman.html) and the song itself is [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cJRP3LRcUFg).

* * *

 

 

John Watson cursed any and all deities that crossed his mind as he stared dejectedly at his bike, rain soaking his hair and making it appear four shades darker than its usual sandy blond. The wind chose that moment to pick up, and John nearly threw himself on the ground in defeat. He sighed and pushed the bike over, not caring if it scratched or dented or spontaneously bloody combusted; it was a shit bike anyway, and it had done nothing for him except leave him stranded in the  _ middle of fucking nowhere _ .

The blond, now completely soaked, stuck out his thumb as the rumbling of a car engine drew closer. The vehicle showed no signs of stopping, or even slowing, and John was dangerously close to murdering a certain driver.

_ If this wanker doesn’t fucking pull over, I swear to- _

Thus commenced the worst thing to ever happen to John Watson in his entire twenty-one years of life. In what seemed like horrifying slow-motion, a wave of dirty rainwater was kicked up by the tires of the car, crashing into him with the same grim finality of death. It left him feeling colder and even more soaked than he was - and it didn’t help that he needed both hands to count every time  _ this exact moment _ had happened to the female lead in the cheesy romantic comedies his mother and sister enjoyed so much.

_ Dear God above!  _ John mentally shouted before realizing he could bloody well screech all he liked, ta very much.

“What the fuck is your problem?” the blond screamed, unabashedly wielding his two middle fingers like swords. “I know you fucking saw me, you ball-less bastard!”

John stood shivering as the car drove further and further away, finally disappearing from his line of sight.

“Gonna get hypothermia and fucking  _ die _ ,” he muttered to himself, picking up his bike and walking it in the direction of home, “if the pneumonia doesn’t get me first.”

Another car, black and strangely elegant, drove closer slowly, the windshield wipers working overtime, fighting against the same wind and rain that almost blinded John as he staggered down the road. The lights on the car illuminated nothing but the first few feet in front of the vehicle, but John stuck his thumb out anyway, desperate to get out of the rain.

The car pulled up close to John and rolled to a stop; John nearly punched the air in excitement. Now there was the problem of determining whether or not the good Samaritan was an axe murderer.

The driver’s window unrolled a crack, and a deep, velvety voice emerged from within the vehicle.

“Punctured bicycle wheel. Put it in the boot and get in the back seat.”

John eyed the driver warily, shifting on his feet. He’d prefer to die some other way, really, and not chopped to bits by a madman in a sodding hurricane.

“For God’s sake, I’m not going to kill you,” the driver snapped. “Hypothermia will do that before I will. I strongly advise you to take advantage of my brief stroke of generosity if you want to survive to the end of this storm.” The driver spoke his next words through gritted teeth. “Now,  _ get in the damn car,  _ and you won’t end up dead.”

Not ending up dead sounded great to John, so he obeyed the man’s orders, throwing his backpack in the car before finally getting in himself.

“Jesus Christ,” John said, pushing his hair out of his eyes to get a good look at his savior. “Thanks a lot. My name’s John Watson. Where are you headed?”

The man was around John’s age, with a mess of unruly dark curls on his head, sharp cheekbones, and a full mouth. John raised an eyebrow as those green-grey-blue eyes scanned him.

“My mother’s house,” he replied finally, his voice flat. “We’re about half an hour away, maybe forty-five minutes in this weather. You’re at least an hour and a half away from home on foot, maybe an hour on the bike. Either way, it’s not advisable in this weather.” John opened his mouth to speak, but the other man continued fluidly. “To answer your next question: no, you are not in my debt, and I will accept no monetary gratitude. What you can do, however, is pose as my date for this ridiculous party of my mother’s. Early twenties, med student, considering military. Should meet my mother’s standards. It would just be for a night, and I’d drive you home in the morning.”

Pale fingers tightened their grip on the steering wheel as John simply blinked, trying to process all the brunet had thrown at him.

What he came up with was, “How’d you know about the military?” instead of something relevant, such as “Why haven’t you started driving yet?” or “Did you really just ask me to meet your parents?” or “What bloody color  _ are  _ your eyes?”

So maybe the last one wasn’t a priority.

The man rolled his eyes. “Obvious. The rigid way you hold yourself and your overall clean appearance suggests either a military parent, desire to join yourself, or both.”

“Brilliant,” John breathed.

The driver glanced back at John, his eyebrows pulled together. “Excuse me?”

John grinned. “That was extraordinary!”

The man’s eyebrows knitted together. “Extraordinary? That was… I didn’t even do anything. Give me your phone.” John didn’t hesitate to dig into his bag and hand the stranger his mobile. “Your brother recently divorced his wife, probably due to his drinking. The engraving on the back says  _ Harry, from Clara _ , and you’ve told me your name is John. This is a young man’s gadget, so it’s not from your father. This is a newer model, maybe six months old. Six months old and he’s just giving it away? Divorce. If she’d left him, he would’ve kept it. People do. Sentiment. He’s given it to you, which means he’s left her. Scratch marks around the charger indicate his alcoholism. His hands shake when he goes to plug it in each night.”

“Amazing!” John exclaimed.

The man blushed prettily. “Obvious. Child’s play.”

“Not obvious to me,” John insisted. “That was bloody fantastic.”

“Are you using every positive adjective you know?” the driver snapped, his voice lacking any real irritation.

“Yes,” John affirmed. “You’re every positive adjective I can think of.”

“That’s… quite kind of you. That’s not what people normally do.”

“What do people normally do?”

“Usually they just punch me.”

John shook his head. “You’re much too pretty for that,” he said, winking.

The man turned pink and readjusted his hands on the wheel. “Are you going to ask me any more inane questions, or can we get going?”

John shrugged. “Can’t you answer my questions while driving? I have some… important ones.”

“If I must,” the man replied, turning to drive.

“What’s your name?”

“Sherlock Holmes, nineteen, born January sixth, chemistry student. I play the violin when I’m thinking, and sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Potential dates should know these things about each other, yes?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure. John Watson, twenty-one, born March thirty-first, med student. I play rugby sometimes,” John replied, frowning at his sudden lack of interests. “Used to play the clarinet in school. Write sometimes. I guess you could call it that.”

Sherlock nodded. “Anything else, or did I answer all of your insipid questions?”

“How’d we meet?”

Sherlock threw a scathing look over his shoulder. “Are you brain-dead?”

“I’m your boyfriend, now, right? How’d we meet? Who initiated the relationship?” John rattled off. “We gotta know these things if I’m gonna be your boyfriend for a night. What if someone asks?”

A sigh came from the front seat. “Pick something. I don’t care. Don’t make it too romantic or no one will believe it.”

“All right. I initiated, obviously. Saw you in a coffee shop-”

“Obviously?” Sherlock scoffed. “What do you mean,  _ obviously _ ?”

“Would your family believe you asked me out?”

Sherlock pouted. “I don’t frequent coffee shops, and, frankly, it sounds unbelievable. I suggest a chemistry lab or a pet store.”

“A- A what?” John laughed. “Do you have a pet?”

“I have a dog, yes. But mostly I need test rats for experiments.”

John frowned. “You… experiment on rats?”

“Nothing lethal,” Sherlock quickly explained. “Mazes, mostly. One of them might be addicted to cocaine.”

“How- How the fuck did you get cocaine?” John exclaimed.

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s not as if I need a lot of it,” he said casually.

John’s eyes widened in shock and concern. “You don’t-”

“No! If my body deteriorates, my brain will have no transport, and I’ll be useless.”

“Okay, fine. How about this: I met you at a pet store buying  _ sodding dog food _ , and my dog seemed to like you until he pissed on your shoes, and I took you out for coffee to apologize.”

“That’s acceptable,” Sherlock agreed. “A bit humiliating, but acceptable.”

“Good. My dog’s name is Gladstone.”

“Redbeard.”

“All right, then. Are we affectionate?”

“Like… kissing?” Sherlock questioned, pink spots of color showing on his cheeks.

“Well, yeah,” John replied, “but also holding hands, casual touching, cuddling. Are you okay with physical contact? I know my mate Mike hates to be touched unless he initiates. Are you the same way?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “I don’t- I don’t know. Just do what you’d normally do, I suppose. You seem to know so much about these things.”

“Not really,” John replied. “Just going with it, at this point. I won’t kiss you unless someone demands it.”

“Why would anyone want to see that?”

“Oh, you know. Mums do that sometimes,” John said, shrugging.

“My mother doesn’t,” Sherlock shot back.

“We shouldn’t have to worry about it, then,” the blond replied. The tension in the car decreased slightly as neither man spoke. John closed his eyes and wrapped his arms tighter around himself, listening contentedly to Sherlock’s controlled breaths and the sound of rain pattering against the car windows. John shivered as his fingertips grazed his still wet shirt. “Do you mind if I change back here? I’m freezing to death.”

Sherlock blushed again. “Oh. Of course,” he said. “I’ll turn the heat up.”

“Thanks.” John took a clean pair of pants and jeans out of his bag before catching Sherlock’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “Don’t look,” he warned, flashing a cheeky grin at the driver, whose blush only deepened and spread down his neck.

John changed quickly, unembarrassed about baring himself. It was awkward, changing in the back seat of an already sort of cramped car, but John managed. Once he was in dry pants, his entire outlook on life appeared much brighter. He shed his wet shirt with ease, chucking it gracelessly in his bag. It was a pity he hadn’t thought to pack a clean shirt, but, honestly, John was just happy he had pants.

Sherlock, his face red, remained driving whilst awkwardly removing his coat and threw it in the backseat.

“It’ll keep you warm,” he said, smiling weakly at John through the mirror.

John grinned and found comfort in the feel of the black woolen coat on his bare skin, wrapping it around himself tightly. His comfort dissipated as a frankly horrible thought came to mind. The blond glanced at the driver carefully, taking in his fitted suit and neat - if a bit wind-swept - hair.

“Sherlock? Er… how posh is this party you’re talking about?” John asked. “It’s just… I, uh, I haven’t got a stitch to wear. Literally.”

“It’s  _ gruesome _ that someone so handsome should care,” Sherlock replied, smirking.

“Charming, aren’t you?” John laughed, biting his bottom lip. Sherlock blushed pink again, and John grinned at the sight. “Glad to know you think I’m handsome. Thought so myself.”

“I’m sure I can scrounge up something for you once we arrive,” the driver said, directing the conversation away from the topic. “I think if you tried anything of mine, you’d rip it in half.”

John chuckled. “I’m not that much bigger than you are, am I?”

“I haven’t played years of rugby,” Sherlock replied bluntly, flashing a charming smile.

“All right, all right. I concede.”

Sherlock smirked before his face fell into something tight, controlled. 

“You have a girlfriend back home,” he said mechanically.

John shook his head, his eyebrows knitting together. “Nope. Had one, but she turned out to be a sodding cheat, so I don’t anymore. Why?”

“The ring,” Sherlock replied shortly, his fingers tightening on the wheel.

“Oh,” said John, staring down at the ring on the fourth finger of his right hand. “She wanted promise rings. Guess I was the only one who kept the promise.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Return the ring, John.”

John remained silent as he looked down at it thoughtfully, twisting it around his finger.

The man in the front seat cleared his throat. “John, there’s… something else you should know about me. I’m a consulting detective. The police come to me when they are out of their depth, which is always. My deductions - I use them to solve crimes. Murders, mostly.”

“That is  _ brilliant _ . Absolutely fantastic. You know, I think I’ll rather enjoy being your boyfriend for the night,” John said. His heart hammered in his chest, and if he didn’t know better, he’d think it was loud enough for Sherlock to hear. “And, uh, maybe afterwards, if you find me tolerable enough. You’re the most interesting person I think I’ve ever met.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “I… would not be opposed to continuing our association if you were unopposed as well.”

“No, I don’t think I am. And you know what?” John asked confidently, watching Sherlock’s face carefully. “I think you should wear it for now. The ring. Keep it safe for me until I can sell it or something. As a precaution.”

Sherlock licked his full lips before nodding. “Yes, I agree. Definitely.”

“Good,” John replied, beaming as he held the ring out to Sherlock. The driver reached backwards to grab it from him, but John, acting entirely on impulse, took his hand and slipped the ring in his palm, letting his fingers drag over the other man’s wrist as he pulled away. John bit his lip as Sherlock blushed heavily, carefully slipping the ring on his right hand.

John grinned, and any tension in the vehicle instantly vanished as both men started giggling.

“This is gonna be bloody ridiculous,” John laughed.

“Which is precisely why it’s going to be so fun,” retorted Sherlock, grinning excitedly.

“You’re mad,” said John, and, when Sherlock began to protest, he added, “I think I rather like it.”

They talked and laughed together for the rest of the drive, each of them grinning and blushing like lovesick schoolboys. When the two of them finally pulled into the driveway of a lovely two-story home, Sherlock turned around to give John a small peck on the cheek before commanding, “Follow me,” and dashing out into the rain without so much as an umbrella to shield him from the torrent.

As long as his detective didn’t get sick, well, that was fine with John; at least, he certainly wouldn’t mind another kiss.


End file.
